Let Me Go
by TheCleverDame
Summary: Sam x Reader - A series of drabbles in which Sam has a hard time dealing with the death of a loved one. Daddy!Sam
1. Chapter 1

You lean against the doorway watching Sam as he flips through a pocket sized photo album you gave him for your second anniversary. A trace of a smile flashes over his face, unnoticeable to the untrained eye, before a sour grimace retakes his mouth.

He takes a breath, preparing himself and turns the page. It's another ridiculous photo of the two of you in front of the world's largest frying pan….one of the many memories involving shitty roadside attractions. He runs his fingers over a picture of your face, as if he can somehow pull the moment back to life.

His eyes flicker up and his chest falls at the sight of you. "Hey."

"Hey," You shoot back, shuffling towards him.

Sam slaps the book shut and holds it out to you. You don't move take it. "We were happy weren't we? For a while at least." He absentmindedly thumbs the thin wedding band around his ring finger.

"You should burn that thing." You ignore his question, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed. "Trying to relive what we used to be isn't healthy, baby."

"I know." He ticks his jaw and looks away from you. Sam gets pissed when you talk about it.

"I'm dead, Sam…and you're keeping me here. I need you to let me go." You lean closer, careful not to touch him. "I don't want to spend eternity trapped in our bedroom."

"I'm not ready yet. I'm sorry." He doesn't look at you. Instead he stands up, grabs the album and walks out the door, pushing it shut behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

"I can't do this anymore." Sam cries, throwing his hands up. "Please just stop!"

You watch as Sam runs his hands through his hair in exasperation. He moved from tired and into state of perpetual exhaustion a week ago.

He's at his wit's end.

You shift your gaze from Sam to your son, Henry, his small mouth twisted in some unknown agony, whaling at the top of his lungs. Such piercing, unrelenting screams for such a small body. He's bouncing on chubby legs, balancing himself at the edge of his crib. His small face is red-raw from crying, crocodile tears spilling down his cheeks.

"Dada!" the little boy hiccups between wails, his thick arms reaching out. He's just shy of a year and it's his first and only word. He can only call for his dad. He coughs, stuttering before shrieking again, "Dada!"

The muscles of Sam's chin begin to quiver as his son begs for him.

"Pick him up Sam, he needs you to hold him. He needs his father." You plead, stepping closer Sam, wishing you could shake him.

Of course Sam can't hear you…can't see you. You're just a shadow now, a ghost.

"I'm sorry, I got cha. Daddy's got you." Sam coos, his spirit breaking as he relents, a tear slipping down his cheek, dripping salty into his mouth. Sam plucks Henry from his crib and holds him to his chest, lying back onto the bed. The child's cries soften as he melts into Sam's arms, his small head resting on a warm, familiar chest.

Sam rubs his back until the only sounds left are that of Henry's gentle sucking of his thumb and Sam's ragged breath, trying to hold back his own grief.

"I know you miss your mom. I do too, but it's just us now." Sam whispers, gently cupping his little boy's head. "You can't cry all the time. We need to sleep, _I need to sleep_."

Sam takes a deep breath, it helps to calm the ache in his chest. The pain comes in waves, but in this moment, with his son drifting to sleep on his chest, it's bearable.

"I'm here." Your words fall on deaf ears. You sit, devastatingly invisible at the edge of the mattress. "I'm here."


	3. Chapter 3

Sam has just finished his first beer when Dean's name scrolls across his phone. He rolls his eyes and slides the screen to answer.

"It's been half an hour Dean. What could have possibly happened in thirty minutes?" Sam's sleep deprived, agitated is his new normal.

"Your lack of faith is my babysitting abilities hurts me…hold on…." There's a series of muffled noises, including that of a happily, babbling baby and then he's back. "The kid's fine, we're pooping and wiping applesauce on each other's faces. I'm a pro."

"Then why are you calling me?" Sam snaps as the bartender sets a beer and shot of whiskey in front of him. "I asked for one night Dean, just a couple hours, child free, to clear my head."

"I know, God knows you need it. Believe me, no one is happier than me that you finally left the bunker….but I think you need to come home."

"Why?" Sam gulps down his half his beer in one chug. He's looking for any way to lessen the ache that's swelling in chest.

"Because Sam," Dean's the pissy one now, and for good reason, "I just had a conversation with your wife. You know, your dead wife, the one who finally mustered enough spirit juice to tell me that you've been keeping her trapped here?"

"Jesus." Sam closes his eyes, anger surging up from his belly. "It's none of your business Dean."

"I think it is my business. _I think_ , you've got a son who's probably been watching his dead mother float around for the last six months like it's perfectly normal. And _I really think_ that you're never gonna be able to get over Y/N and move on with your life while you're re-enacting the plot of Ghost. You of all people know better, it doesn't end well."

"Fuck you, Dean. I'm dealing my own way." Sam spits, his eyes narrowing.

"Yeah, well, we need to come up with a better way that doesn't permanently fuck you and your son at the same time. Get back here."

"Fine." Sam hangs up, his jaw ticking. He lays money on the counter and downs the whiskey. He has no intentions of letting you move on, not now.

Not yet.


	4. Chapter 4

**In The Beginning**

* * *

"I don't know if I can do this, he's so small." Sam's in pajamas on his knees, hunched over the bassinet. He looks back to you sitting on the edge of the bed, silently asking for guidance. His face falls under the weight of sudden worry, "I don't know how to be a father."

"It's the most natural thing in the world Sam, you're going to be wonderful. Just love him and protect him, everything else will follow." You offer him a encouraging smile, scooting closer. Your body is still tender, it's only been forty eight hours since you gave birth to this tiny little human and you wince as sharp pain shoots from your groin. Every part of you is different now, including this strange empty feeling, your once full belly now squishing like jello with every move.

"Look at all this hair…" Sam's voice trails off as his ever-so-gently runs the pads of his fingers over his son's full head of thick, dark hair. He smiles as the baby coos, making soft noises at the familiar touch. A tiny hand wraps around Sam's index finger which looks gargantuan in comparison, holding on with a pint-sized grip as he squeals kicking thick, chubby legs.

"He loves you." You rub Sam's back, watching the unfettered delight spread from his eyes to his mouth, manifesting in series of silent over the tops facial expressions that make Henry's big eyes go wide in response.

"We're gonna buy a house." Sam is talking to you but still looking his child, he can't break his focus.

Until this moment he thought falling in love with you was the most intense emotional experience of his life, but looking down this little boy, his heart feels so full of love that it aches. "He's needs a normal bedroom to play in, when he gets bigger."

Sam's been less and less happy with the bunker living arrangement, it's only a matter of time before he pulls the trigger on someplace more domestic. He wants nothing more than to give his child the life of suburban normality he never had.

"We'll figure it out." You lay your cheek on his shoulder, overwhelmed with bliss and utterly exhausted.

Henry releases Sam's finger, making delicate, small noises looking to you. Sam sits next to you, tucking his arm around your waist, kissing the hair at the side your head. "I didn't even know I wanted him."

"Me either." You think back to the pink plus sign on the pregnancy test and how terrified you were of telling Sam. It seems like distant memory now.

"How are you?" He pulls back to look at you, his brows drawing together, "you feel alright?"

"I'm tired and happy." You glance from your son to your husband, as he places a hand over your knee. "I'd stay like this forever if I could."


End file.
